


Home For The Holidays

by midnighhts



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (with mentions of pre-serum Steve Rogers), Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, How Do I Tag, Kinda unfinished, M/M, New York City, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky Secret Santa 2017, Unbeta'ed, Winter, read at ur own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighhts/pseuds/midnighhts
Summary: At length, he settles for, “I knew you in high school.”High school, Steve remembers, means that lanky kid with asthma.Dark eyes, he tries to remember, means. . . no one from high school.Steve RogersAwardsShowing all 56 wins and 113 nominations[ From imbd.com ]





	Home For The Holidays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comedicdrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama/gifts).



> HELLO  
> fucking hell i'm three days late. . . . aaaaaaaaaaaa family stuff, and then i got sick so oof but aaaaaaaaaaa joyeuses fêtes!!!!  
> i'm sorry this sucks, esp the end (but who knows,, maybe i'll continue it owo)  
> also sorry this isnt shrinkyclinks or stuff, but this Was gonna be that but i changed it midway through, so theres that
> 
> anyway !!! i'll maybe redo this soon oof #spoil er but hahaha hi i'll pretend the end is bare because steve is too shocked to react
> 
> ok cool thanks for your patience <333
> 
>  
> 
> ~~tbh everything i write is a fever dream~~

NOW THAT THE AWARDS SEASON IS OVER, Steve can have some time off; a lil’ R&R, a lil' siesta, a TLC for his BH (big heart). Granted, most of his November was left for interviews, photo shoots and parties, so it wasn't too tiresome — but as the December chill starts to slow the bustle, he'll actually have some time for himself. Other actors like to go to such exotic, tropical paradises for the holidays. Steve has his own unique destination in mind.

New York is a truly special place. Cold in the winter, crass in the city, and just what he needs. The people here are indifferent to his fame(tourists and paparazzi notwithstanding). It's the kind of place that just makes him feel. . . human again.

It's the kind of place his agent detests.

“No, Fury, I did not accept an interview.”

Steve has his phone tucked to his ear with his shoulder. In his hands is a sweet cup of coffee, in the other is a pastry in a bag. He could hold both his coffee and his sweets in one hand like any normal person, but where's the fun in that? The challenge, too, is to do so while not crashing into slower people or food carts.”

“Well, tell me then, Rogers, why are you splashed all over _Teen Vogue_ ’s cover page?”

Steve takes a swig of his coffee. “Because I'm voted _Sexiest Man Alive_?” He turns his body as he passes by a group of tourists, squeezing his body through the space. “Or is it another quiz with my face in gifs?”

There's a sound over the phone, and Fury is back, sounding a little further. “Steve Rogers, Hollywood's Golden Boy: Confirmed Dating Femme Fatale Natalie Rushmore? Lord, you don't pay me enough for this.”

“What?” Steve says into his phone. A couple glances at him, and he replies with an apologetic look. He transfers the pastry bag to his other hand to grab his phone with his now free hand. “I didn't know I was dating anybody.”

“Neither did I,” Fury replies. “I’m getting calls from Natasha's PR team, and they didn't either.”

“I didn't do any damn interview, Fury,” Steve says into his phone, his voice growing more pinched. His steps pick up. He doesn't stop for anyone now; the people, instead, part for him. “The last major romance/scandal thing I had was two years ago. Who even wrote it?”

“Some kid with a death wish,” Fury mumbles. Keyboard clicking in the background, he's quiet for a beat before speaking up again. “I have Coulson contacting HQ to figure how the hell to skin the kid.”

Steve takes another sip of his coffee. “No need to commit murder.” He relaxes the tick in his jaw, and loosens the furrow of his brows that he didn't know he had. “I’d rather be on a magazine than on the front news headlines.”

The pastry is definitely cold now, and the thought makes something sad rumble in stomach. So, instead, he drinks more coffee. He pauses at an intersection. From the corner of his eye, he can make out two teenage girls staring at him and pointing their phone at him. He stares forward, turning away just a little bit.

“Alright, Steve,” Fury says at length as the blond crosses the street. “At least you're trending right now.”

Hah, yeah, _at least_. “We need better than that.”

Steve turns a corner.

“Just stay out of the spotlight for now.”

“Uh, Fury,” Steve says. He takes a step back, and the paparazzi takes a step forward. “I need to call you back.”

“Steve! Steve! Are you actually dating Natalie?”  
“Mr Rogers, are you here in New York to visit Natalie?”  
“Why have you kept this relationship a secret? Is that Natalie Rushmore on the phone?”  
“Does Miss Carter have anything to say about this?”

Steve ends his call without listening to any of Fury's last words — to which he'll definitely hear about later to no end, but right now, he has no care for. He slides his phone into the pocket of his jacket, taking a step back. The paparazzi advance on him. Their cameras flash bright in his eyes, and their iPhones are shoved into his face.

“No comment,” he says with his nicest smile. He turns on his heel, and just. . . books it. He doesn't run; that would mean he's guilty of something and that would mean an even worse headline. So, instead, he brisk walks. His long legs carry him much farther than most people, which means he's a good much further than the paparazzi. Some of the more determined ones still follow him, though. He's chucked his overpriced coffee and cold, uneaten muffin into a trash can in his haste, so he stuffs his hands into his coat.

He kinda walks on autopilot. The streets are (mostly) the same so it's muscle memory that drags him around the city, away from fame’s prying eyes. There are some differences: that one Greek restaurant by the convenience store is now is an Italian restaurant, there are a handful of new street carts sprinkled around, and there's a new apartment building where a strip mall used to be. Despite the five years, though, it's still the same city. He swears he can still see that large SR RULES graffiti he painted onto the side of a fruit market.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out and answers it in one fluid motion.

“Привет?” he says.

“Damn, Rogers,” Natasha says in return, “you almost sound fluent.”

Steve smiles. “Don't be patronizing.”

“What? I'm just being sweet to my boyfriend.”

Steve groans. He crosses the street, and continues down the street. He's not sure where he wants to go, but he’ll know it when he gets there.

Natasha laughs. “Buy me dinner first.”

“Buy your own dinner,” Steve grouses good-naturedly.

There is a coffee shop down the street. A staple since Steve's childhood, it's a pillar of warmth and light in the cold. The last time he was there was before his flight when he left for LA. It's a beacon, and he's a moth being drawn close. He walks quicker, swerving around the other people. And they have strong coffee. Considering how much PR a’d damage control he's going to have to do later, he's going to need it.

“Oh, I like my men feisty.” Natasha laughs, light and unlike her maniacal, evil laugh that she saves for her once-in-a-blue-moon action, or when she's second in Mario Kart and she has a blue shell ready to fuck Clint up on the third lap.

Steve ducks his head, and keeps his eyes trained to the floor as he passes by another large group of women. He walks quicker now, and slips into _The Blue Cup_ after an elderly man holds the door for him. It's warm and it smells like coffee — which, that is how coffee shops should be. There is a long line, too, so Steve sticks by the door as he scans the new decor.

The sounds of the women's enthusiastic chatting must've reached Natasha, because she gasps into the phone. “Steven Grant Rogers, are you cheating on me?”

“Да, Малы́шка,” he replies, almost theatrically. “I’m five-timing you.”

Steve shakes the dirt off his jacket, and he nearly elbows a guy in the process. He offers an apologetic grimace as he pats himself down, but the guy only glares and falls into line. Steve rolls his eyes. If Steve weren't critically acclaimed and on the path to an Oscar, he'd have dragged that man into an alley to duke it out mano y mano.

“So, Steve—” Natasha pauses for a while as there's another voice in the background. “What time? I didn't know I had an interview today. Нет. Да. Да. . . . Maria, look, give me a minute.”

Steve steps into the long line. It's already reached the door, with everyone on their phones from the wait; and all the seats are filled, save for the few stray chairs along the bar counter. Despite how packed it is, it still feels breathable and welcome — though, good luck finding a seat. Most of the customers must have figured that little tidbit out because there are more people leaving with takeout trays than there are people in line.

“Steve!”

He glances at his phone. Oh, shit, right. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. Look, honey, I have to go. Interview in 30, and then I have to haul my ass to France in a few hours.”

Steve laughs. The line crawls forward. “Busy holidays?”

“No help from you. Now, I have to defend myself from the angry mobs of Clintalie and Stargaret fans.”

“Oh, come on.” The line moves forward, but the woman in front of him takes a jerky step back. She offers a handful of apologies, which then holds up the line. Steve can only try to reassure her. “I have to go, too. Say Hi to Maria for me. And Clint— Ma’am, please, it's all right.”

“Damn, Rogers, you really attract trouble.”

“Good bye,” he says with a humorous finality. He hangs up first. He turns back to the woman in front of him. “Ma’am, please move forward.”

And. . .fuck.

There's a certain look in people's eyes when they figure out who he is. For most, it's this wide-eyed look mixed with some form of admiration— for others, it's a predatory gaze that only promises a lot of picture taking and autographs.

For this particular stranger, it's the second.

“You’re Steve Rogers!” she squeals. “Oh, my god! You're so much handsomer in real life. My daughter loves you.”

Her loud voice attracts the attention of most of the store. All eyes turn to them, beady little things with poorly concealed interest. There are a few with their smartphones raised to take photos. He can only hope this doesn't make another headline.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says with his award-winning smile.

She pulls him into a hug. While this isn't the worst fan encounter he's had, it's still notable that the line is _still_ held up — though one of the people in line have turned back to watch the scene unfold.

He can see the headlines now: “Steve Rogers Holding Up A Line In New York”, “Steve Rogers: Rude To Fans???”, “Here Is A Definitive List Of Steve Rogers’ Favourite Coffee”.

The man behind him clasps him on the shoulder. “Mr Steve, I loved you in _Project Skeleton_. Could you say the line?”

“ _Then finish it_ ,” he parrots from memory, “ _‘Cause I'm with you to the end of the line, pal_.”

A crowd forms. Slowly, at first: just the woman, and the guy, and maybe the person sitting next to the line— then all at once. Phones, camera flashes, excited chatting. He's trapped in the middle of the line, so it isn't like he has any way of escape. He could hop over everyone, and do some weird _Mission Impossible_ stunt (which, he can, by the way), but then there's a chance of hurting someone. He does not need a lawsuit right now. He endures the bright lights with a smile and the best deflection he has. God, why didn't he bring a bodyguard, or something?

Someone offers him a marker and a notebook, and soon everyone else is handing him things, too. He tries to push it away, but it slips, and clatters to the floor. Someone replaces where that person's hands used to be, and soon it's a full on swarm.

It's getting claustrophobic.

“Guys—” he tries, but his voice is swallowed in the crowd. “Guys! Hey! Give me some space, please. H-Hey!”

Somehow. . . through a miracle, an angel comes. Like the Red Sea, the mob parts, and standing like Jesus is coming straight at him, one of the baristas has pushed the crowd apart, standing with his hands stopping either side.

Steve's not sure when he's last seen such a beautiful man.

“Mr Rogers,” the barista says, somehow louder than the rising tide of people, “please follow me.”

And Steve, six feet tall with muscles to spare, hunches his shoulders and wiggles out of the vacuum. The people turn to follow him, but the barista holds his hand out. This man must _really_ be Jesus, or some kind of magician, because the people turn docile. Somehow. They're still snapping pictures like crazy, but they part wide enough to let Steve find his way behind the counter. The barista points him to the break room, and Steve ducks inside.

There's another guy in a _Blue Cup_ uniform sitting in the room, a cigarette and his phone in his hands. They meet eyes, and Guy opens his mouth to say something, but Barista Jesus appears behind Steve like a weird ninja.

“Fitz, out,” Barista says, low like a growl. “Help Simmons and Ward control the damn crowd.”

Fitz jumps to his feet, and does as he's told — probably because Barista Jesus is glaring at him, or (if Steve will allow himself) because he's starstruck. Still, it's quiet now inside the break room, much quieter than in the middle of a crowd, though colder than the cafe proper. Steve can worry himself over their workplace politics all he wants later; now, he just folds into a plastic chair in the corner.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Occupational hazard. Hard to be this famous and good-looking.”

It's a joke, but some part of him believes it. How different would it have been if he stayed in the army? Worse in a different way, obviously, but someone as uncoordinated and weak as Steve would've never been allowed three feet to a semi-automatic.

Barista doesn't particularly laugh at his joke, though he doesn't look like the type who would. He has a stoic face in a perpetual frown, but still charming in the dark, brooding way. He looks familiar somehow, but Steve gets the same sentiment: he's just another handsome, blond guy on the LA strip.

Steve raises his head, and gives a small smile. “Thanks, by the way. I’m Steve Rogers.”

Barista nods. “I know.”

Steve nods back, though the back of his neck feels warm from blushing. Duh, Rogers. This isn't some tiny town in the Midwest with no proper cinema. He wrings his hands in front of him. Well, this isn't awkward, or anything.

He sighs. He never even got his coffee.

“You're Steven Grant Rogers,” Barista Jesus says as if listing off facts. Steve can only raise his head, furrowing his brows. “Born in Manhattan, but grew up in Brooklyn. Your mom’s name was Sarah. You didn't know your father because your mother never spoke of him, and left no evidence of him after she died.”

Steve's fists form by his sides, knuckles white. He's not going to punch the guy that saved him from being swallowed by a mob — but, Lord, he might soon. Good Lord he just might. He’s still that same boy from the shitty apartment with a bloody nose every afternoon because the other boys called him names or called his ma names. The New York air isn't doing anything to stifle his firecracker spirit, either.

“Look, buddy,” he says with a fake laugh. “If you're a stalker or something, just. . . .”

Barista narrows his eyes, scrutinising. “You used to wear newspaper in your shoes. You bet Dum Dum to a drinking game before you got all. . .” He gestures to Steve's frame, “. . .big, and yet you somehow won.”

Steve jumps to his feet. Barista eyes him warily.

“How do you know that?” Things like those. . . Steve says a lot of crazy shit in interviews, but rarely about his Brooklyn days. His LA life is laid out on a silver platter for anyone to read, but like hell he'd ever drag Dum Dum or Morita or Falsworth — or anyone into the jaws of the public eye.

Barista remains unflinching, but now, there's a question in his dark eyes, a thread being tested and pulled through the gears of his mind. He takes a step forward.

“You don't know who I am,” he says. It probably should've been a question, but it falls flat. A statement.

Steve feels horribly like he's on uneven footing. Sure, he can wave it off; “Sorry, pal, but I am famous, you know?” Another part of him, the curious and twisted side, wants to press it where it hurts — a bruise on his arm, a bone out of a socket, a mysterious stranger with sad eyes.

His seeking and his needs outweigh the reasonable. “Yet you know about me more than anyone else,” he counters. “How?”

Barista stares at him, but just for a bit too long. His eyes go wide, and soft — impossibly fond. Dark eyes with too much behind them. It feels vulnerable to be under his gaze, sharp yet gentle at the same time. Stranger's eyes, _and yet_.

At length, he settles for, “I knew you in high school.”

High school, Steve remembers, means that lanky kid with asthma.

Dark eyes, he tries to remember, means. . . no one from high school.

“I'm sorry,” Steve murmurs. He is. A stranger with sweet eyes who is trying to find something in him that he cannot provide. He's not sure why he's so disappointed — in himself, most especially. He collapses back into the chair. “I don't remember much of high school.”

A lie, really, but it's kinder than letting the barista down harshly.

Barista studies the blond for another moment. He takes a step backward, and Steve releases a breath. “I see.”

_I see._

“Sorry, I'm just a big fan,” Barista says, smooth despite himself. He presses his gloved hands over his apron — blue. “Is there anything I can get you? I think Melinda might be able to make you a drink despite the line. She'd be ecstatic to meet you, too.”

They laugh; Steve out of politeness, Barista humorlessly.

Steve scratches his nape. “I wouldn't want to trouble her — or—or you.”

“No trouble at all. _The Blue Cup_ would be much happy to serve you, Cap.” Barista winks, and Steve chuckles. Some characters last for one movie, some characters stick to you until the end of time. Captain Evans — colonel, really, but Steve never even got past being a private, so he’s not one to complain — is one of the latter ones.

Steve smiles. “Thank you so much. . . .”

“James,” Barista supplies.

“Thank you, James.” The name is foreign on his tongue despite being acquainted with James Rhodes, the almost-director for his last project, _Wishlist_. (In the end, it was this Nordic artist named Thor.) Steve tests the name out on his tongue; Rhodey. . .Well, he’s a James through and through — but Barista Jesus is not a James. Steve doesn't know what he is, so he stays quiet, nodding, smiling. This isn't a press conference, and yet the blond’s watching his tongue.

James smiles, eyes of shadows, dark, dark hair. “No problem, Steve.”

He turns to the door.

Steve chuckles under his breath. James forgot his order. Well, that's going on their Yelp rating. “Wait, Buck, you—”

That name is even weirder on his tongue.

 _Wrong_ , his mind supplies. _Very wrong._

James has frozen as well, halfway into a step. His hands hang on both sides of him, though his fingers meet into loose fists. His dark shirt shows just the way his muscles tense: shoulders drawing up like a cat being held wrong.

Steve balks. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I meant James. I—”

“Bucky Barnes,” the man says quietly.

_Bucky Barnes._

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs.

The man turns. Dark, dark eyes. “You do remember me.”

Steve can see the headlines now: “James Barnes: Who Is He And Why Did Steve Rogers Punch Him In The Break Room Of A Coffee Shop?”

Well, maybe not.

Steve feels all his energy release, and pool at his feet. Relief — not really. Disappointment — not at all.

Exclusive: Who Is James Barnes?

_Bucky Barnes._

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, and he’s left to babble, “I thought— I thought— They said—”

The man turns back, sunken eyes but a familiar smile. “And you said you said you'd never come back to New York.”

Four years ago, he did an interview for an afternoon talk show. He was still so young then, eager and working on as many indie projects as he can — and as the California warmth settled in his bones, he remembered how much he cursed his memories of this place.

“I needed to keep my agent happy,” he murmurs but it's weak to his ears. He hangs his head. “And I was hurt.”

He never expected this to happen — not here, anyway. Not a coffee shop in December with his hands out in front of him while Bucky stands, silent and totally unlike the man he knew. He expected a lake, maybe in the rain, someone on their knees, praying to God Almighty.

James — Bucky — places a hand on Steve's head. His fingers curl into the short hairs on the back on his head the same way he would before tugging it. He doesn't, though, soft and hesitant this time. Do guys even do this anymore?

“I missed you.”

Steve takes in a deep, shaky breath. He feels frail again, twelve years-old, cold hands, shitty lungs.

A part of him wishes he walked into a different coffee shop, or that he didn't walk into any one of them, or maybe he should be in D.C. helping Sam edit his new gig.

But then Bucky sighs, whispering something that feels incredibly soft, and Steve thanks Fate because he's a part of this now — here, where he feels himself smile despite the tumultuous ruckus in his chest, and, really, where else can he go?

“Bucky.”

“Steve.”

His voice croaks, “Six years.”

“I know, Stevie.”

Distantly, he hears his phone pick up again. Fury, it seems, by the ringtone. Or maybe Coulson. Still, he lets it ring.

“I missed you so much, Buck.”

Another hand on his, running a thumb over his temple. Gloves, yet still cold.

“Why didn't you write?”

Bucky snorts, “I did.”

Steve raises his head.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Bucky mumbles. A strand of his long hair escaped his hair tie. Steve wants to lock it behind it his ear. “No puppy dog eyes like that. You're too famous for that now.”

Steve leans forward. He presses his face against Bucky's apron — blue, and smells like vanilla and cinnamon. The fingers in his hair tighten with in his hesitation.

“Please, five minutes.”

Bucky sighs. “We can't ignore this.”

“Five minutes.”

Bucky runs his hand over the side of his face. “Okay,” he says at length.

Steve breathes him in. A different laundry soap from Steve's, but it suits him.

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.”

“Five minutes.”


End file.
